Midnight Calls of Desperation
by Illusion of Insanity
Summary: This was it. He wasn't going to do this any longer. Today was the day that he was going to kick this habit and never again so much as look at the catalyst to his misery ever again. He no longer cared about keeping up appearances to the rest of the world. He wanted out, NOW. (SoulSilver Future!Fic)


He never knew that he could stoop so low.

He was currently curling up on his bed with violent shivers and cold sweat that trickled down his face until he felt as if he was going to never be still again. The moment he covered himself up with his covers, he felt as if he was on fire. Instead, he had to suffer the terrible freezing feeling that made his teeth chatter.

He hadn't meant to _ever_, ever be here again, utterly miserable in both body and mind and staring at the world with blurred vision. He didn't even remember how he got back to his small apartment in Goldenrod, he just closed his eyes in the Battle Bar and the next blink he was stumbling inside of his room and falling face-first on the bed with a nauseous swirl of his stomach. Lugia knows how he had managed to make his way back to apartment in one piece on his beloved motorcycle.

Silver orbs, once so vibrant and hypnotizing where now nothing more than dull grey clouds as he searched the room for the thousandth time. In this state, he didn't dare let his Pokémon see him. He knew that they would only set him off even more, the poor things not understanding how to help their Trainer in such a state besides holding him back from tearing the house apart.

As if that would help.

Finally, his eyes locked on to a splash of black and red on his bedside. He reached out with an unsteady hand, trying to see if it was exactly what his fogged mind thought it was. The hard, cold metal surface made his fingers nearly feel as if they had frozen over, but he wasn't going to stop now.

This was it. His mind fought to think as his heart beat out of his chest and his breathing came out as frantic puffs of useless air that only were rejected by his suffocating lungs. He wasn't going to do this any longer. Today was the day that he was going to kick this habit and never again so much as _look_ at the catalyst to his misery ever again. He no longer cared about keeping up appearances to the rest of the world.

He wanted out, _now_.

The quivering limb brought the Pokégear to his side with only a few near-disasters. He was thankful in the back of his mind that he had been able to keep a hold on the device instead of dropping it on the hardwood floors and breaking it. He found himself biting his lip and racing to breathe through his nostrils as the device flipped open.

The bright screen nearly blinded him, causing him to let out a slurred curse. His eyes could hardly stand the harsh red wallpaper he had chosen for his Pokégear in both this dim night and his current state. His thumb shook as he tried to find that number, the one person that he could ask for help. He hadn't even _dared_ to see her for over a year, but at this present moment, she was the only one he could trust.

He just prayed to Lugia and back that she wouldn't be utterly disgusted with him—what was left of him.

He finally found it and pressed his cold thumb onto the lonely name before he had the chance to change his mind. The device let out a low tone as it searched for the other Pokégear, haunting the young man as it continued to mock his plight. His rapid breathing did nothing to hide the worry that swirled in his brain beside the toxic poison. What if she didn't pick up? He hadn't seen or called her in over a year. Heck, he had no idea if she had even kept her number after all this time. Even if she did happen to have the same number, she might just ignore his call seeing as he hadn't even tried to contact her.

No, she wasn't like that. As stubborn, hot-headed and cocky as she's always been, she'd never ignore a cry for help, whether it be his or a complete stranger's.

Finally, after an eternity of waiting, he heard that little voice he wanted so desperately to hear.

"Silver?" He tried to keep his panting breaths away from the phone as that sweet tone rang out. "It's almost half an hour after midnight. What do you—"

"Lyra," He cut her off with a pitiful choke, his eyes suddenly wet with tears of embarrassment. "I-I...n-need...I need..." He couldn't even talk right at this point. His tongue was twisted, his mind was swirled and his breathing was a contest as to see how many inhales he could spit back out without taking any oxygen from.

"Silver," Her voice was stern on the other line, making Silver's frantic heart drop into his stomach and drown in the volatile acid. "I honestly don't have time for jokes now. I was just heading to bed and I—"

"Help," His voice became a frantic, hopeless plea. "Please, Lyra. Pl-Please help."

The other line was silent for a long time, making him fear that she had just given up on him and hung up. He choked down a rising bitterness in his throat before gasping for air again. He was soon given a bit of light when the other line let out a low sigh.

"I'll be over in ten minutes."

Before he even had a chance to thank her, the other line dropped the call.

Silver just mimicked the action before letting the device fall to his side. She had said yes. Lyra Soul, his old rival, was actually coming to his dingy little apartment and helping his pathetic, worthless self in his moment of utter despair. A slight flutter of hope was only crushed by the shaking of his body and the tightness in his chest. Tears raced down his face as he found himself struggling to sit up.

Why had she even bothered with him? He was utterly useless, worthless, nothing but garbage to toss aside and scoff at as you passed. He wasn't even worth all of those times she had stooped down and picked him up out of his slough of despond. Yet here she was, answering his midnight call after not hearing a peep from him for so long, acting as if they were still as close as they were as children.

It was then that he remembered that he wasn't even dressed.

Well, wearing a sweat-coated undershirt and your boxers was still considered dressed to most, but it was still very improper of him to just open the front door in. Muttering mixes of curses as the world whirled around him, he tried to find at least his discarded jeans that he had hurled to the floor only an eternal hour before. Clumsy hands fumbled on the hardwood flooring as he swayed back and forth, unable to keep his head steady in his search. His hands finally brushed against those worn denim jeans and he struggled to put them on.

The second he tried to stick one leg down inside of the jeans, he fell face-first to the floor and kissed the wood with all his might. With a painful moan and a hand up to his injured mouth, he tried once again from the floor. He somehow managed to put them back on, but he still had the dilemma of making his way to the front door and letting her in with his faltering feet and the pitch-black of his apartment.

Despite the foolish idea of actually making his way to the door without any problems—he managed to fall on his face seven times, trip over a cord twice which was on the same lamp to make things worse, walk straight into a wall three times and even falling over the back of his old sofa—he fought his way to the entry inside of his dated kitchen. He was searching for the key when the muffled sound of talking met his drowning ears. He froze and turned to the front door only to find a dark form phasing through his metal blockade.

The form turned out to be none other than a Mismagius, the Pokémon grinning and chuckling as it twisted the deadbolt on his door, unlocked the main knob and then opened the door with a flourish, even so much as taking a bow as a silhouetted figure walked inside and flicked on a light switch.

Silver shielded his face from the instant flash in what felt like slow motion, not even able to lift his arm fast enough to protect his eyes.

Lyra Soul, however, was quickly hit with a ton of bricks at the sight before her.

Leaning against a table, one arm gripping the nearest chair as if he were standing on ice, was her old rival. The young man's flaming red locks were a complete mess, half of them sticking to his face and the other half frizzing out and making him resemble some type of monster. His grey undershirt was damp with sweat and who-knows-what while his jeans looked as if he had found them on the floor—which he had. Bare feet did nothing to keep him steady, instead seeming to do just the opposite.

She had never, _never_ thought he would stoop so low.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: <strong>Alcoholism is a very serious condition. This is not meant to simplify, romance or to support alcohol addiction in any way, shape or form. If any of the symptoms within this piece are inaccurate, please do not hesitate to tell me so. The last thing I want is inaccuracies in my writing.<br>**_

_In this piece, Silver's really a mess. I have no idea why, but I had a very strong desire to write something a bit more angst-filled than usual. This topic is something I personally dislike and for some reason I felt like writing it. I don't really want to say anything more about the subject to be honest. Silver is not only drunk in this, but he is also suffering from anxiety, making him an utter mess. He's in his mid-twenties in this fic, and Lyra is also a full-grown woman as well. I might continue this as I've already started a second part, but if you (the readers) like this as a one-shot, I'll keep it as such._


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